Hello and Happy Poetry Friday! Be sure to visit Janice at Salt City Verse for Roundup.
ICYMI: Click here for information about the Open Call for a new middle-grade poetry anthology, The Periodic Table of Poetry, coming from Lerner in 2028 with poems selected by Irene Latham and Charles Waters. We can't wait to read your poems!
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| Heidi with The Poetry of Car Mechanics |
Publisher's description:
Dylan seeks solace through birdwatching and poetry in the woods behind his grandfather’s auto shop—but when he rescues an injured hawk, he must learn to confront the broken parts in himself in this powerful middle-grade novel-in-verse.
As is the tradition here at Live Your Poem, I've invited Heidi to respond to 4 simple prompts. But before we get to that, here are two poems excerpted from the novel. The first, because of its truth. I don't want it to be true, but it is. And isn't it our job to be honest with kids?
The second, because I love how clearly the distinction is made between "mentally ill" and "crazy." Kids need this message.
Broken
Nature is cruel
to broken creatures.
Lame—
be it claw
or mind—
a long
cold
starving
season.
Or worse.
---
Counselor's Office
So much time
in the school counselor's office
has been spent
untangling
mental illness
from
crazy.
I know the difference.
Mentally ill
is a diagnosis.
Crazy is a feeling.
But young me
was all feelings
and didn't understand
diagnosis.
So many days,
from where I stood,
my life felt
crazy.
And now here's Heidi!
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| Heidi writing at Highlights |
HS: I liken the writing of THE POETRY OF CAR MECHANICS to writing 200 picture books, then revision 200 picture books. The process of creating a verse novel is, in my opinion, more intense than that of a prose novel (I’m in the middle of the revision of 4 of those, too). Though, I do think my experience as a picture book author did help. The space between poems is like the page turns of a picture book. The compression and economy of words is so important in both forms… there are many similarities.
But, honestly, the most difficult part of writing this book was the subject matter. There are many themes, but one of the most important is mental health, specifically, that of Dylan’s absent mother. I have received many emails from people commenting about how real this book feels in relation to their experience of navigating the mental health issues of their own loved ones. That is not just craft, it’s from experience. One of the most important things for me, as the author, was to treat Dylan’s mother with respect, but, at the same time, to allow Dylan to feel real feelings. He had to be able to be angry, embarrassed, sad, confused and even say things that, maybe, I was uncomfortable with, because his words weren’t always how I would like mental health issues to be portrayed. I did not want to stigmatize or villainize Dylan’s mother, but, if I sanitized what he was feeling, it would be less authentic. That balancing act was probably the most difficult part of writing this book.
Honestly, this is the part of writing I love the best. Just like Dylan says (of car mechanics) in the first poem. it’s “part poetry, part meter and math.”
If you’re a writer, you know the magic I’m talking about.
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| Tom Ricardi with a friend |
Also, a little fun bit—when I got about half-way through the first draft, I went to visit my friend, raptor rehabber Tom Ricardi. I asked him a ton of questions to make sure the bird parts were plausible and he brought me around his facility. All the birds you meet in the pages of THE POETRY OF CAR MECHANICS, those are all straight from Tom’s real birds. I gave him part of my advance to continue saving birds. When I brought him his copy, he read it and brought it around to all his neighbors showing them “his book.”
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O, to Be an Owl; O, to Be Wise
by Irene Latham
First you'd have her eyes.
You'd like to see the world
the way she does, with such
clarity in low light.
And the way she sits still,
so still. A round moon
disappearing, becoming
one with her perch.
What you really want is to hear
with her ears, to savor
that symphony of heartbeats
singing from beneath three feet of snow.
How does she choose,
how does she know?
No one sees her coming.
She is all rustle and swoop,
feather rippling, her body
a quiver of arrows pointing
to the next right thing.






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